to bring the mind into such a state, unless it happens by chance or during deep dreamless sleep. The ability to consciously release the mind from tension is of great value. Real meditation is relaxation: the deeper and “formless” it is, the more significant will be its restorative effect on the human body. So meditation is a really practical exercise. They should not be religious at all, although the usual idea of ​​​​it is just that. In itself, it is fundamentally academic, practical, and useful. I think this point needs to be emphasized because many people associate meditation only with saintly or pious personalities and see it as an advanced form of godly living.
Throughout my life, I have tried other ways to “get away from things” and allow calmness to spontaneously permeate my being, at least for a while, to counteract the tense situations caused by the accelerated rhythm and worries of normal life. But I found that although this course of action did some good in each case, its echo quickly faded away, and I could not bring anything more effective into my daily life than memories. This was not enough, but the memories at least supported the understanding of what can be gained by learning to live more as an outside observer of the scenes of business life than as an unwitting participant in it. Not achieving my goal with a sense of urgency, I gradually began to feel that if I could find some method of meditation, free from emotional and religious complexities, that could be intelligently adapted to a normal daily routine, that would be just what I needed. And not only to me, but also to any other person who feels that his true nature is crippled and mutilated by the constant and almost unnoticed tension of modern life.
By chance, I got a book with a description, as it seemed to me, of just such a method. I studied it carefully to see if it really contained something that I thought it possible to tackle. This was a very detailed description of the satipatthana method by a Ceylonese Buddhist who had taken a course at a training center in Rangoon. Satipatthana is a special mind-training method pioneered by the Buddha and revived in Burma by the Buddhist priest Mahasi Sayadaw, head of a center in Rangoon where this method is taught to monks and lay people alike. It turned out to be simple—in fact, so simple that its very simplicity seemed to be one of the main difficulties! And it did not require any philosophical understanding, any special religious beliefs. I thought that it would be difficult for me to derive any tangible benefit from any kind of meditation unless I began its practice with a period of concentrated study under conditions that were at least favorable. Finding the right conditions in the midst of the life I led was not easy. But it so happened that I had the opportunity to go to Rangoon, where the author of this book took his course. And so I wrote to the Buddhist Council asking if I could be trained. I received a very encouraging response and a generous offer to bear all expenses for my stay there during the course. Accordingly, I made a plan to use my four-week leave from my then-service to complete the course, and to accept the fact that I was supposedly going to become a Buddhist. However, it will be seen later that my story is not about conversion to Buddhism, but about trying to test the effect of the carefully tested Eastern system on the typical Western mind. 2. DEVICE
But then an invitation to our flight was heard, and after a very short time I was already flying. The activity of the crowd, so personal and close a moment ago, gave way to calmness; what had been groups of joyful and excited people turned into patches of an indistinct brownish-gray color, where light occasionally flashed when the sun reflected on some glass or jewelry of precious stones. It was a sense of disillusionment, the depersonalizing effect of the "view from above." I often experienced it when I flew the plane myself; but in a transport plane such an impression is usually fleeting and almost imperceptible, since attention is occupied with the immediate task of somehow managing the unexpected opportunity to do nothing but sleep, eat and read until the next landing. But this time I looked down at the shapeless mass of people, where the outlines of people merged with the outlines of roofs and trees, and the whole picture of vigorous activity quickly plunged into an indistinguishable distance. I tried to imagine myself here in the role of some kind of deity who sees all the insignificance of the human race, and at the same time below, taking part in all human joys and sorrows. This representation was almost in tune with the solution I was looking for, except that both of my imaginary representations existed one after the other in some time sequence. If it were possible to avoid the destructive effect of an abundance of too strong emotions, this sequence would be eliminated. Such a review must be carried out simultaneously, as it were, from within and from above, and it is necessary to beware of an overly impersonal and dry point of view: it is prevented by knowledge of the intimate sides of joy and suffering.
The name “Meditation Center” is a translation of the Burmese words “saasana yita” (pronounced with long “a” sounds; in the word “saasana” the stress is on the first syllable). Although the Center is mainly intended for monks, who are mostly (but not all) engaged in teaching satipatthana in various cell buildings, there are also facilities for the laity. In the Western sense, this institution can be compared to a staff college for the education of the mind - quite strict, given the harsh routine and long hours of work. There are no religious ceremonies that laymen are required to attend, but they are expected to "take" the five moral vows taken by all monks and live up to them. About these commandments themselves I'll tell you later; they remain in effect during the entire period of study.
At a quarter past five in the morning I was to be taken to where I would get my morning rice; and that night was the last time I could afford to be in bed for more than four hours. Be that as it may, I was delighted to wake up at half past five ...
Soon a guide appeared, and we went to the territory of the Center, to the house where I was to eat. When we arrived there were already four monks; they sat cross-legged at the table; in front of them was a large bowl of rice and several smaller bowls with strange assortments of bits and pieces. I was asked if I would like to sit in a chair; but I declined this offer and said that I could settle down perfectly on the floor. I was assigned a separate table. I was also served rice, more than I could eat in a whole day; besides rice, some seeds similar to lentils were served, which are eaten with rice; A little later, a cup of tea was served. At this time of the morning I did not feel real hunger, and this amount of food turned out to be much more than required, even if I had to eat only once during the day. Therefore, I subsequently agreed through an interpreter that in the morning I would receive only fruit and tea. After that first day, I usually ate bananas, an apple, and sometimes papaya in the morning with a cup of tea and a pitcher of milk, my only concession to Western habits, apart from my decision to drink only boiled water. As I walked back, the sounds of the coming morning were already beginning to break the silence; one could feel the expectation of dawn, although it was still dark. I took great pleasure in this walk, because the morning hour has a kind of intimacy that can be felt with particular vivacity; for lonely people, this experience turns out to be strengthening and invigorating. I am accustomed, returning after morning tea, to always stop at the same place; there I waited for the dawn, making preparations for the meditation on "feelings." My favorite place was next to a small lake in a large crevice; the cows and sheep that roamed around went to drink here. As the suffocating dry days set in, I noticed that the water level dropped a good six inches daily.
Upon returning to my cell, I had to attend to my daily duties - making the bed and sweeping rooms.
Our daily lunch started at half past ten; I got my portion in the same place as the morning tea. Lunch usually consisted of a large bowl of soup; I found this soup to be very refreshing, although it was more like a vegetable broth. For the second, they gave a piece of fish, sometimes a little meat. Invariably rice was also served, which I refused, however, and instead I was given a bowl of green beans. Sometimes for lunch they also served a piece of Burmese cake, nougat or fruit, and, of course, regular tea. Such a menu was not made especially for me; the monks received the same, as well as milk according to European custom. Lunch was our last meal until half past